


Midnight On The Interstate

by stop_the_fading



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stop_the_fading/pseuds/stop_the_fading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, Dad. Figured you'd be at work, but I wanted to let you know that if Scott starts spreading rumors that I've abandoned my education in order to kidnap my chem lab partner in the middle of the night so we can spend the rest of our lives rambling around the country in an SUV full of secrets and shame, it's totally not true. Mostly. Okay, love you, bye."</p><p>:::</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight On The Interstate

    "Hey, Dad. Figured you'd be at work, but I wanted to let you know that if Scott starts spreading rumors that I've abandoned my education in order to kidnap my chem lab partner in the middle of the night so we can spend the rest of our lives rambling around the country in an SUV full of secrets and shame, it's totally not true. Mostly. Okay, love you, bye."  
  
:::  
  
    There isn't any warning, the first time Stiles sees Derek. No butterflies, no light shining through the murky clouds of his life, no choirs of angels. Not even a little spark.  
  
    There's vague recognition, the sort you get when you spot someone who could be someone you'd met briefly in a checkout line or sat next to on the bus. Except Derek doesn't look like the sort of man who rides the bus, and if he does, no one would have the guts to sit within three seats of him. It's not that Derek seems violent or anything. He's just...blank.  
  
    When the professor has everyone settled into their pairs, Stiles looks over the table at his new lab partner and smiles awkwardly. After all, they'll be spending three hours with each other twice a week, and that's a lot of time to spend with someone you don't like.  
  
    Derek stares. Like he's not sure what Stiles' face is doing. Like smiling is some kind of alien thing.  
  
    Stiles keeps smiling, anyway. Maybe, if he does it enough, Derek can learn to smile back.  
  
:::  
  
    There's a crafts fair in Kingman, Arizona, and Stiles ends up buying a drop spindle and a bundle of wool. He's terrible at spinning, but Derek isn't.  
  
    "My aunt has a wheel," the man explains quietly as the ladies running the stall coo over how smooth his yarn turns out. His foot pumps steadily over the pedal, tufts of colored wool catching together between nimble fingers. "I used to watch her spin."  
  
    He doesn't elaborate any further, even after they move on to fry bread, and Stiles doesn't ask. He tucks the wool and the spindle away in his bag and grabs at Derek's sleeve and drags him towards a local woodcutter's stall instead. Derek buys him a little wooden fox with a sly, painted-on smile, and it feels like a thank-you.  
  
    Stiles isn't sure what for, but he takes it with a sly smile of his own.  
  
:::  
  
    Somewhere in Kansas, they stop to see a horse made out of chrome bumpers. There's a pig, as well, that you can put money into for charity, a different one every month. This month is for a children's hospital, and Derek slips a few bills into it when he thinks Stiles isn't looking. Stiles doesn't comment, but he does smile every time he looks at Derek for the rest of the day, even when the older man refuses to pose with the bumper-goats also on display.  
  
    They find the largest ball of twine in Cawker City. Derek argues that the one in Minnesota is more impressive, since it was wound by one man. Stiles counters that the moving story behind the Kansas twine ball makes is far more important. Derek calls it soppy. Stiles plots a course for Minnesota, because they can't really judge without seeing both of them.  
  
    Derek sighs, but he doesn't argue. He does refuse to have his picture taken beside the painting of the Mona Lisa holding a ball of twine, but Stiles figures that's fair enough.  
  
:::  
  
    It only takes one lab with Derek for Stiles to start wanting.  
  
    He's not sure what it is that he wants. Part of him thinks it's probably to get Derek to show an emotion, any emotion, that isn't wry, bitter defeatism. Everything about the guy seems like an implosion in progress, albeit slow and subtle. Once Stiles notices it, though, he can't get it out of his mind.  
  
    It's at the end of the second lab that Stiles starts to want a little more obviously, when Derek catches him in the process of tripping over his own feet, arms warm and firm and perfect around Stiles' body. Derek doesn't hesitate, simply rights Stiles with a roll of his eyes, but Stiles doesn't care. He's used to that kind of wanting, used to it not being reciprocated.  
  
    He treasures the eyeroll, though, the muttered, "Smooth, Stiles. Real smooth." Gathers them close to his heart, because Derek might not be besotted with Stiles' body, but for the first time, he doesn't look like something is sucking his soul out from the inside. Stiles really, really wants him to look like that all the time.  
  
    By the third lab, he's so very, very screwed.  
  
:::  
  
    Derek seems perpetually bemused by the Potato Museum in Albuquerque. Mostly by the fact that there is a potato museum, and that it's in Albuquerque. Stiles likes it, likes how his brow smooths and his mouth softens. They don't stay long, but the mood sticks, and Stiles likes it, likes it, likes it.  
  
    The New Mexico Museum of Natural History has a dinosaur sculpture out front, and Stiles badgers Derek until he takes a picture of Stiles pretending to flee in terror. He follows along while Stiles flits along the Timetracks backwards, from ten thousand years ago back to twelve billion years ago, and before they leave Stiles buys him an Archaeopteryx figurine as a reward for not laughing at him.  
  
    They go to the Planetarium, too, even though it means they can't really do anything else before the museum closes. Stiles gets dizzy halfway through, closing his eyes, and his fingers brush against Derek's briefly. Derek doesn't move, and when Stiles turns to peer at him in the dark, he sees it - the tiniest hint of a real smile tugging at the corner of Derek's mouth, lit up by the stars. He looks content beneath the false sky, and while he watches the constellations, Stiles watches him.  
  
:::  
  
    "Stiles, answer your damned phone, will you? At least text or something so I know you're still alive." There's a staticky sigh. "Scott says you didn't even leave a note, Stiles, and your message wasn't exactly comforting. Just...be careful, okay? We'll talk about you skipping out on your classes when you get home. Which...when are you coming home?"  
  
:::  
  
    Two weeks into their lab-partnership, and Stiles still doesn't know anything of value about Derek. At least, that's what Scott says every time Stiles sighs into his Cup-O-Soup over the older man.  
  
    "You don't actually know how old he is," Scott groans. "Or where he's from, or what he's majoring in, or...Stiles, you don't even know his last name!"  
  
    Stiles never bothers with a rebuttal, because it's just ridiculous. He does know Derek. He knows so many things about Derek, and all of them are more important than how old he is (and Stiles does know how old he is, because he asked).  
  
    He knows that Derek likes swing music and epic film soundtracks, especially the swashbuckle-y ones. He knows that Derek has a Camaro, but drives a RAV4 with a personalized license plate. He knows that Derek owns a pair of impeccably-clean yellow Converse that he only wears when his boots are too soggy to wear because he's tripped into a rain-swollen pothole in the parking lot. He knows that Derek can put away Snowballs like they're nothing, and that he likes his coffee like his attitude: black, bitter, and generally off-putting until you've gotten a taste for it.  
  
    Stiles thinks that's all much more important than last names.  
  
:::  
  
    They don't take a yoga class in Denver, because they stumble on an open house for a dance studio before they can find one. Stiles is only a little surprised when, as they pass by on foot with styrofoam cups of street coffee, the faint strains of Choo Choo Ch'Boogie slip out into the evening air and Derek's head whips around, eyes wide and shining.  
  
    There are people everywhere, and it's loud and close and hot in spite of the gaping doors and the cool breezes. Stiles loves it a little, even though he's definitely not a dancer. Derek only just rescues Stiles' hapless, nameless partner from certain elbow-induced death by tugging Stiles in and swinging him around the dance floor. He's trying to look gruff and put-upon, but there's a looseness in his limbs and the hint of a smile in the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.  
  
    They dance to every song after that, easy and open in a way that they usually aren't, and Stiles laughs a lot. It's breathless and light, and his feet won't thank him for it later, but it's worth it for the way Derek forgets to scowl more and more as one tune bleeds into another.  
  
    At the end of the night, they play a slow number. Stiles shrugs at Derek, seconds from tugging his hands away, but Derek pulls him in closer instead. Stiles huffs and makes awkward faces, stumbling anew because he can't think of his feet and his pouding heart and the way Derek's hands feel warm against Stiles' own all at the same time. Derek just sighs, scuffing his toes against Stiles' until the Stiles gets the hint and climbs up onto his boots. It renders their little shuffle ungainly and off-tempo, but it makes Derek almost smile, so Stiles is more than okay with it.  
  
    "I'm glad there is you," Derek sings under his breath. "More than ever, I'm glad there is you."  
  
    Stiles wants to agree, but he likes this Derek, likes the soft sparkle of him, bright and kitten-tickly against Stiles' heart like champagne, and he can't, won't scare him back into hiding, so he flutters his eyelashes at Derek comically and pretends to swoon instead.  
  
:::  
  
    Everything about Derek is rough-hewn and splintered, has been for as long as Stiles has known him. Which, admittedly, has only been a month, and over a bunsen burner isn't the best way to get to know someone. He can feel it though, rubbing sharp and stinging against him, peeling bits of him back and laying him open in terrifying ways.  
  
    Derek doesn't know, can't know that he's bleeding Stiles so well. Stiles knows this for certain, because Derek would pull away if he did, put up a wall between them, and Stiles would be left with a hastily-written sample of an iTunes library and the smell of burnt coffee and nothing else real.  
  
    Stiles really, really doesn't want that.  
  
:::  
  
    They sleep in the RAV4 twice when too much time spent arguing means the last exit for too long is far behind them. Stiles curls up in the very back, and Derek sprawls as much as he can in the backseat. The second time it happens, Stiles offers to switch, but Derek is already pulling an itchy green blanket up over himself, eyes bleary and far away.  
  
    Derek whimpers in his sleep both times, soft and piteous, and Stiles can only ever stand a few breathless moments of it before he leans up over the back of the seats and presses his thumb to the space between Derek's eyebrows. He strokes softly, the way his mother had done when Stiles had a nightmare, and hums the Harry Potter theme song. He makes up words, nonsense that doesn't rhyme, until Derek breathes deeply again. He lingers, though, the pad of his thumb tracing over Derek's hairline, rubbing circles against his temples, brushing at the corner of his eye where it crinkles when he's happy.  
  
    Stiles doesn't ask about the nightmares when they pull back onto the highway, and Derek doesn't talk about it. Derek doesn't talk about much, though, so Stiles is never surprised.  
  
:::  
  
    Midterms are looming, and Stiles has been watching Derek's shoulders draw tighter and tighter, as though someone was stretching him on a rack.  
  
    Derek is always tense, but it's not usually like this. He wonders if it's grades, or if maybe it's just the constant wear of being here, surrounded by expectations and demands. Stiles wouldn't blame him - he can feel the talons of mustmustmust sinking into his spine with every review question he answers.  
  
    "You should let me take you out," he says quietly over the unlit bunsen burner as they move to tidy everything up. Derek's eyebrows soar, and Stiles suddenly realizes what he's said. "I mean, you know. As a study break. Somewhere off-campus where the midterm cooties can't touch us. Maybe breakfast or something?"  
  
    Derek almost smiles, for the first time since Stiles has known him, and shrugs.  
  
    Stiles takes it as a yes, and he sets his alarm for four in the morning before turning in that night, because it'll take a couple of hours, at least, to get to San Francisco.  
  
:::  
  
    They don't notice it's Halloween until they stop for lunch somewhere in Minnesota, arguing all the while about twine and the power of community. Their server at the noisy little diner they choose is cosplaying as Crow T. Robot, and she laughs at Derek's bewildered expression. Stiles tries to explain the concept of Mystery Science Theater when she sashays away, her golden crest catching on the top of the kitchen doorway with a dull thunk. Derek doesn't get it.  
  
    They end up in the same room this time, leaning against Stiles' headboard with their legs stretched out, Derek's laptop balanced on their knees and a bag of assorted Hershey's miniatures between them. Stiles steals all the Mr. Goodbars, and Derek rolls his eyes when Stiles pawns the dark chocolates off on him. It's not that Stiles hates dark chocolate. He just likes the way Derek says, "It's good if you suck it" every time. They watch Night of the Blood Beast, and Stiles knows all the riffs by heart, mouthing the words soundlessly along with the video.  
  
    He calls Derek 'Steve' for the next three days, and Derek almost smiles every time. When they stop in South Dakota, Derek makes him watch What's Up, Doc?, and Stiles just can't bring himself to call the man Steve anymore, even though his kind of wants to, just to see how Derek reacts.  
  
    If he notices the lack of random Steves, Derek doesn't comment.  
  
:::  
  
    "Stiles, seriously, where the hell are you? You've missed all your classes, your dad says he hasn't gotten anything from you since you sent him that picture of the Mona Lisa holding a ball of twine. Even Lydia's asked me where you are. Just...call me, will you? Or text. Something that isn't a picture of a stupid roadside attraction. It'd be nice to hear from you sometime before Thanksgiving. Are you even coming home for Thanksgiving? Call me, man."  
  
:::  
  
    Derek tells Stiles about Kate in North Dakota while they share a container of sesame chicken on top of a giant turtle made out of rims.  
  
    Stiles listens, chewing mechanically even though the chicken is suddenly dry and tasteless, while Derek explains how their families have always been at odds in the business world. He explains how Kate had bumped into him at a club in LA, and how they had taken to each other immediately. How romantic it had seemed, their little star-crossed drama. How much he'd loved her, or loved who he'd thought she was. How she'd used him for information. How her father had then tried to ruin them, had nearly succeeded, had left black marks all over their name using what Derek had given them.  
  
    Mother Hale has sent him back to school to learn accounting, he says, even though he has a degree in music composition already. He hates accounting, but he hates the guilt that burns in his gut even more.  
  
    Maybe, he doesn't say, if he's good and he does well, they won't be mad at him anymore when he comes home. Maybe, he doesn't say, if he takes his punishment like a man, he won't be so mad at himself.  
  
    Stiles hears him, loud and clear. He doesn't like it one bit. He lets Derek have the last eggroll, and scrawls their names on the sun-warm surface of the turtle's back. He makes Derek's 'D' an awkward F-clef and hates Kate with all his heart.  
  
:::  
  
    "Hey, Scotty. Sorry I didn't catch you, and I'm sorry I just took off. It's just...this is kind of really important? More important than midterms and Thanksgiving. And, I mean, I don't know if I'll be home for that. I know, that sounds awful, and you guys will make sure Dad has company, right? I would, I swear I would, but...Scott, this is important. So important. To me. So if you could, you know...not freak out? I'm fine, I promise. I'll text you guys when I know about Thanksgiving, okay? Bye."  
  
:::  
  
    They don't stop for anything more than a good night's sleep in a series Super 8s until they get to the tail end of Texas. They park at a Wendy's and sit on the hood of the car while they eat, watching a border patrol SUV roll by.  
  
    "You don't really think about it," Derek says suddenly, quietly. When Stiles just blinks at him, he balls up the wax paper from his burger and stuffs it into the bag. "All the people literally dying to get into the country," he elaborates.  
  
    Stiles has never really had much of an opinion about it, except that he knows there's no one in the US who isn't descended from an immigrant who isn't Native American, so getting stingy about who is and isn't allowed into the country is kind of douchey. He doesn't say that, though, because Derek's still talking, and Stiles is loathe to interrupt him.  
  
    "It's not the best place to be sometimes, you know? But it's better than a lot of places. It has to be - so many people are struggling to get here. I guess I just...I think that people complain too much about all the things they don't have, when we clearly have so much. It could be worse."  
  
    "It could always be worse," Stiles says when it seems like Derek's not going to continue. They watch another border patrol car go by. "We're fucking lucky, you and I. Out of everyone, even here, we're not even close to being the unluckiest." He watches Derek peel the lid off his soda and stare into its depths like he thinks the key to life is hiding just under the ice.  
  
    "It doesn't make things hurt less," the older man murmurs finally.  
  
    Stiles nods and bumps his knee against Derek's. They throw the trash away and get in the car and head back north.  
  
:::  
  
    They play a lot of music in the car. Even though the November air is chilled, Derek likes to crack the windows while they're on the highway and crank the volume up. When he's not driving, he leans his elbow on the windowsill, eyes shut as his fingers drag through the crisp autumn wind. Stiles imagines the music trailing behind them as they drive, fluttering from Derek's fingertips like a silk scarf, billowing over the highway.  
  
    They argue a lot about music, but it's always with sharp grins and rolling eyes. Neither is picky about what they'll listen to, but their favorites are all so vastly different. Stiles says they're like a Venn diagram of musical taste, and Derek snorts.  
  
    As they come up on Chicago, Derek plays I'm Glad There Is You, and Stiles leans the passenger seat back and lets himself drift while Derek sings along. He watches Derek through his eyelashes while he pretends to be asleep, and catches the barest hint of a smile, just at the edge of Derek's mouth. It's not the same as it was in the false starlight at the Planetarium - the sunset washes over Derek now, golden-bright. His sunglasses hide his eyes, and Stiles is left to imagine the way they look, warm and stormyseagreenblue.  
  
    He really does fall asleep as they enter the city, and it's a couple of hours later before Derek shakes him awake, the sky a murky blue. The neon sign of the motel splashes over Derek's shoulders, and Stiles wonders why Derek spent so long driving around. He can't think of a plausible reason, but something in him is inexplicably warmed, anyway.  
  
:::  
  
    Derek blinks at him blearily when he opens his apartment door. "Stiles?"  
  
    "Hey! Good morning!" Stiles shoves a travel mug of bitter, black coffee and a package of Snowballs at the man. He manages to ignore the fact that Derek is only wearing a pair of sweatpants that are threatening to slip down to his ankles, but he can't quite stop staring at Derek's bedhead.  
  
    "...It's five AM."  
  
    "Astute observation," Stiles allows, gesturing idly and averting his gaze from the wildly touseled hair to look Derek in the eye. "I said I'd take you out for breakfast, remember?"  
  
    "At five AM?"  
  
    "It takes a little while to get to the place I'm thinking of. C'mon, put on a shirt and let's go! You can sleep a little longer in the car."  
  
    He beams up at Derek, who is still staring at him like he's been speaking Klingon, and tries to pawn off the treats he's brought again.  
  
    Derek takes them with a sigh. "Just...let me get dressed."  
  
    Stiles doesn't do a victory dance in Derek's doorway, no matter how much he wants to.  
  
:::  
  
    Derek is the one who suggests they buy the postcards when they stop at a 7-11 in Birmingham. He picks out a few, showing them to Stiles for his approval before adding them to the protein bars and Gatorade.  
  
    They divide them equally back at the motel, three for each of them, and fill them out lying on their stomachs on the bed in Derek's room. Stiles writes questionable limericks on his, one each for Scott, Melissa, and his dad, and doodles dinosaurs in the remaining space while he waits for Derek to finish.  
  
    When he does, he shows Stiles, who bursts into giggles, because Derek has filled the available message space on all three of them with a word salad worthy of Finnegans Wake. He's addressed them to a Cora, a Laura, and a Peter. Stiles doesn't ask who those people are to him, but they're all Hales, so they must be family.  
  
    They mail the postcards on their way out of town, rolling the windows down and blasting 'Bad Blood' as they head for the horizon.  
  
:::  
  
    "I don't like this, Stiles. You not coming home. You've never been away for the holidays, and I just...I can't help but think that something's wrong. You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever's going on with you, you can come to me with it. If you're in trouble, or you're having some kind of crisis...I'll do everything I can to help. You know that, right? Please, son. I just need to know what's going on."  
  
:::  
  
    They're in Florida for Thanksgiving, and they stop in Jacksonville for the night. Stiles breaks out a stack of turkey Lunchables and a box of Diet Coke he'd picked up the day before, and they share a room for the first time in a while, sitting like they had on Halloween. Stiles insists they watch High Anxiety, even though it has nothing to do with the holiday. Derek doesn't complain, even though he steals some of Stiles' turkey slices.  
  
    They fall asleep on top of the covers, curled in around the laptop and the empty soda cans. Derek is already up when Stiles wakes up the next day, clicking through his e-mail at the desk and answering none of it. Stiles wonders what waking up next to Derek would be like, but he doesn't dwell. He's learned not to dwell.  
  
    They head to St. Augustine and take the ferry to Fort Matanzas. The view from the fort wall is stunning, and if Stiles snaps an unprecedented amount of pictures of Derek, relaxed against the ocean view, Derek doesn't comment on it. They wander the nature trail for a bit afterwards, and Stiles sings Hooray For Captain Spaulding loudly enough to make several of the other tourists glare at them.  
  
    Derek gives him that barely-there baby smile, though, and when he comments on the chill wind, Derek hands Stiles his leather jacket. Stiles bundles up tightly, surrounding himself with the warmth and the smell of it, all the way back to the car.  
  
:::  
  
    "Dad, please, stop freaking out. I'm okay. I'm really, really okay. It's...complicated, but there's no trouble, no crisis. Just...I don't know, maybe I needed a little bit of freedom. Maybe I should have taken time off before college. Whatever it is, it's not life-ending or illegal, okay? I'm...happy. Really, really happy. and I'm not alone, okay? I have my chem lab partner with me, remember? So stop panicking. Everything's...good. It's really good."  
  
:::  
  
    Somewhere in between Georgia and Tennessee, Derek pulls his gaze away from the rain spattering against the passenger window and turns the music down.  
  
    "I talked to Laura yesterday," he says quietly.  
  
    Stiles hums idly. Laura, he's discovered, is Derek's sister. He remembers the postcard Derek sent her; a white silhouette of Alabama on a field of blue with a little pink heart where Birmingham was, nonsense scrawled all over the back of it. He thinks about that little heart sometimes, wonders about it, but he doesn't dwell, never dwells.  
  
    "She wants me to come home."  
  
    His foot lifts off the gas instinctively, and they slow a bit. He puts the wipers on higher and pretends it's because of the rain, and he doesn't look over at Derek. "Do you want to go home?"  
  
    There's a moment of silence, heavy and full of words they could say, but the only one Derek picks is, "No."  
  
    Stiles tries not to smile. He smiles anyway.  
  
    "Okay."  
  
:::  
  
    There's a revolving restaurant at the top of a hotel in Nashville. Stiles doesn't get dizzy like he had in the Planetarium in New Mexico, but it's still disconcerting. Mostly because they're the only two there besides the wait staff. The food is good, though, and the view is incredible, but his favorite part is that Derek keeps giving him that little baby smile. It edges closer and closer to a full-blown smile every time Stiles glances up at him, and he tries very hard not to dwell, but Derek makes it difficult.  
  
    After dinner, they walk along the Pedestrian Bridge, and Stiles stops near the middle and reaches out towards the lights of downtown Nashville, making little grasping motions.  
  
    "Do I even want to know what you're doing?"  
  
    Stiles grins. "Thinking about fireflies," he answers lightly, and Derek laughs quietly. Stiles' stomach flips, and he wishes he could carve that sound into his brain and remember it until the day he dies.  
  
    The revolving restaurant, Stiles learns through Google later, is only open for events like wedding receptions, and it has to be reserved. He hadn't known that when Derek had proposed they go, and Derek hadn't said anything about it. Stiles sits and stares at the screen for a while, heart pounding almost painfully.  
  
    Derek makes it very, very difficult not to dwell on these things.  
  
:::  
  
    They're in Virginia Beach, bundled against the December wind, strolling the deserted boardwalk, when Derek asks him.  
  
    "What are we doing?"  
  
    Stiles stops, staring out at the gray churn of the ocean. They're close to the pier, and there are teenagers milling about in the sand. Locals, definitely, and they shove and laugh and dare each other to wander into the surf.  
  
    He doesn't know how to answer Derek. He doesn't know what they're doing. He just knows that he wants to keep doing it, and wonders if maybe his first voicemail to his father hadn't been so far off the mark. He wonders if he can get away with this, with stolen looks and shared space and dilapidated motels, with all of it, forever.  
  
    Derek is watching him watch the waves, waiting for a reply, and Stiles shrugs and continues down the boardwalk. "I don't know about you, but I'm wandering around a beach in Virginia with the awesomest travel companion ever."  
  
    Derek doesn't respond, but he doesn't look as tense as he had a moment ago, so Stiles thinks it was a good answer.  
  
:::  
  
    The ride to San Francisco is quiet, mostly because Derek is too busy trying not to fall back asleep to ask questions about where they're going and why Stiles has rousted him before the sun has even come up. Stiles doesn't break the silence, though, is afraid to, because there's a possibility that Derek might be jolted out of his stupor long enough to realize that Stiles is basically abducting him for a breakfast run. He wonders suddenly if Derek was supposed to have had a morning class.  
  
    Derek doesn't say, and he looks marginally more awake when they pull up to Louis', and he takes in the view with a relaxed sort of air. The vibrating tension that had seemed to tug at his spine in class, like a guitar string wound too tight, is gone. Stiles lets out a breath. Maybe, he thinks, this is all Derek needed. Maybe he won't snap after all.  
  
:::  
  
    "Stiles, are you serious? You've been gone for, like, two months! Your dad says you're just having some kind of wanderlust issue - I looked it up, it's not dirty or anything - but seriously? You didn't come home for Thanksgiving! Are you giving up on Christmas, too? What the hell are you even doing? Where are you? What's out there that's so great that you're skipping seeing your family?"  
  
:::  
  
    They spend a lot of time in the Philadelphia Museum of Art, staring at the surrealist exhibition. Neither of them know much about visual art, but they make a grand effort of it.  
  
    "Yes," Stiles says gravely, nodding at a painting while Derek reads the placard, "this is a perfect example of his Glue-Sniffing Period."  
  
    Derek gives him a bemused shake of his head before going back to pretending to be serious about art.  
  
    They both get looks from the other museum-goers, Derek in his leather jacket and jeans, Stiles in his threadbare hoodie. They look like hoodlums, he's sure, but they keep to themselves, and keep quiet, and at least they're trying to appreciate art, so Stiles isn't sure what everyone's so uptight about.  
  
    The sculpture garden is only slightly less bewildering. Stiles decides his favorite piece in the whole museum is the bumpy, plain pillar of stone entitled 'Dance'. He spends a full ten minutes peering at it, until Derek is sighing impatiently. He apologizes with tarts at the cafeteria, and wonders if this is what dating Derek would be like.  
  
:::  
  
    Stiles makes sure they're in Vermont over Christmas week. They stay in Waterbury, because ice cream. Derek rolls his eyes says that isn't a sufficient explanation, but he accepts it anyway.  
  
    They end up sharing a room for the week at a B&B, and they spend most of it in the village, poking through shops and thawing out in the pubs. They take the Ben and Jerry's factory tour, because ice cream, and even though it's drifting knees-high outside, they order milkshakes at the Scoop Shop. Stiles snags Derek's Milk & Cookies for a taste, offering his own Candy Bar Pie. He doesn't think about Derek's mouth or going in for a second taste.  
  
    Christmas Eve is spent texting his father lines from carols and watching White Christmas. It's on television, so there's no laptop to separate them, and Stiles ends up leaning against Derek, who murmurs lyrics in Stiles' ear and drums his fingers against Stiles' knee in time to the tap dancing. The movie based on that one song about shoes comes on next, so Derek switches the set off, and wriggles down until he's lying against Stiles' leg, forehead pressed against Stiles' thigh, and falls asleep.  
  
    The next morning, Derek is gone, and there is a small, glittery, gold gift bag in his place. Stiles digs into it, and is left staring at the flat, round ornament in his palm. There's a night scene painted on it, little yellow dots scattered around, and cursive words curl across it: 'Fireflies Light the Heart of Night'. Wrapping it carefully back in the tissue paper, Stiles slips it into his pocket and pulls Derek's gift out from under the bed, setting it on the dresser. Then he bundles up warmly and escapes.  
  
    He calls his father, pouring out everything from the first day of class on as soon as the man picks up. Stiles is shaking by the end of it, teetering on the verge of tears, and he finds himself sitting in a snow drift, back pressed against a picket fence by the side of the road.  
  
    "I don't know what to do, Dad. This wasn't supposed to...I was just trying to help," he croaks, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of one mittened hand.  
  
    John sighes noisily in Stiles' ear. "I thought it might be something like this," he mutters darkly.  
  
    "What do I do?"  
  
    "Hell if I know."  
  
    Which isn't helpful, but it's honest enough, and Stiles laughs wetly. "Great. Thanks, Dad."  
  
    "Merry Christmas, son."  
  
    Derek is in the room when he gets back, turning the box holding his Twilight Turtle over in his hands. He looks up at Stiles, baby smile at the corner of his mouth and questions in his eyes, and Stiles thinks about that same smile, and the first time he saw it, stars spread above them and hands brushing in the dark.  
  
    He shrugs.  
  
:::  
  
    "I'm thinking we should head east, at least to start with," Stiles says, shattering the sleepy silence that has fallen over them as they eat. "What do you think?"  
  
    Derek stares at him, confused, which Stiles had expected. He isn't too sure what he's thinking, himself, except that Derek looks more relaxed slumped over a plate of chicken apple sausage and eggs in a strange diner in 'Frisco than Stiles has ever seen him. Maybe the idea forming in his mind isn't the best, or the smartest, but as soon as he thinks it, he knows that it's right.  
  
    "East," he explains off Derek's uncomprehending gaze. "You know, where the rest of the country is. It's...kind of...thataway?" He jabs the fork away from the window that overlooks the Bay, face scrunching as he makes a wild guess.  
  
    "I know which way east is," Derek grumbles, going back to poking at his eggs with a smothered yawn. "Why are we talking about cardinal directions?"  
  
    "Because." Stiles sets down his fork. "We're going on a road trip."  
  
    Sighing, Derek drops his fork, as well. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and, oh, there's that tension again. Stiles frowns.  
  
    "We're not going on a road trip, Stiles. We've just been on a road trip," he adds, waving the hand that's not pressing away what is undoubtedly an oncoming headache at the rest of the diner.  
  
    "Two hours on the highway for breakfast isn't a road trip, dude."  
  
    "It's a trip on a road," Derek growls, snatching up his fork and jabbing at his breakfast with renewed energy, "that you kidnapped me for at five in the morning."  
  
    "Derek..." Sighing, Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair, probably sending it in all directions and not really caring. He takes a deep breath. "When's the last time you did something for the hell of it? Just because you wanted to?"  
  
    Pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth, Derek stares at him again. His expression is wary, and startled, and a little lost, as though the idea of wanting things for himself has become so foreign that he can't quite find his way there. It makes Stiles' stomach twist in uncomfortable ways.  
  
    "School can wait," Stiles presses, leaning forward eagerly. "Or not. For once, I really don't care. I've made up my mind. I'm going to head off into the horizon and have an adventure and maybe take a yoga class in Denver, I don't even know. I hear there's a huge, unnecessary ball of twine sitting by the side of the road somewhere, and I want to see what the fuss over that is about. And I could do it by myself, I'm sure, but...well, I'd really like the company. Your company."  
  
    Derek gazes at him for a moment longer, then sighs, shoving the forkful of eggs into his mouth and nodding. "Okay," he murmurs a moment later. "Okay."  
  
:::  
  
    It's noon on New Years' Eve, and they're nearly to Times Square when Stiles stops. "Derek?"  
  
    "Hmm?"  
  
    "I kind of love you."  
  
    Derek freezes, tense in a way he hadn't been since before their trip started, and despair grips Stiles' heart.  
  
    Wrong, wrong, wrong, he screams at himself. He'd read it all wrong, thought all the wrong things, and now...  
  
    Now he's ruined it.  
  
    Derek doesn't look at him, but Stiles can see the sharp clench of his jaw, the way his fists clench in his coat pockets, and Stiles wants to scream. Wants to sob. Wants to die. When he does speak, his voice wavers softly. "It's...it's okay. You don't have to...I know that you don't. Won't. It's okay. We can just...pretend I didn't say that, right?"  
  
    "No," Derek sighs. "No, we can't." He looks at Stiles then, eyes narrowed and full of doubt, and Stiles wonders how many times Kate had told him the same thing, and it had been a lie. How many times Derek had said it back, and it had been too true.  
  
    Stiles nods. "Okay. Do you...do you still want to-?"  
  
    "I want to go home," Derek murmurs, turning and heading back to the parking garage where they'd left the car.  
  
    Stiles swallows. Then again. Slowly, haltingly, he stumbles after Derek, leaving his heart in pieces behind him, scattered across the pavement in New York City.  
  
:::  
  
    "Hi, Stiles. It's Laura. Laura Hale. You don't know me...well, Derek might have mentioned me, I don't know. He told me about you, though. About what you're doing for him. I don't know if you know it, but he's...really fond of you. And he's not fond of a lot of people these days. And...I just...take care of him, okay? Don't...he's not going to take chances, Stiles. He's not that brave anymore, not after everything. You're going to have to be the brave one, okay? Don't let him run away."  
  
:::  
  
    Derek is silent as they leave New York. He doesn't say anything when Stiles asks to stop for food, doesn't reply to any of the stilted attempts at conversation Stiles offers. It isn't a cold silence, or an angry silence, even. It's just blank, frighteningly blank in a too-familiar way. There's no music to ease the tension, no open windows or baby smiles, and a little bit more of Stiles dies with every mile marker they pass.  
  
    The sun begins to set, and Derek is still staring stonily out at the long stretch of highway. Stiles reclines his seat and grabs for the scratchy green blanket in the back. It itches against his jaw, and it smells too much like Derek, but his pulls it up to his ear, anyway, and wriggles around until he's lying with his back to Derek. It takes him longer than he likes to fall asleep.  
  
    He wakes up to the sound and sensation of the car riding over the rumble strip, and he flails in a panic as the car rolls to a stop. He struggles to sit, jerking off his seatbelt and glowering at Derek, who stares back at him pensively.  
  
    "Don't scare me like that! I thought you'd fallen asleep at the wheel!"  
  
    "No." Derek sighs. "It's two minutes to midnight."  
  
    Stiles blinks at the clock. "...okay?"  
  
    "Why did you ask me to go on this trip with you?"  
  
    It's too early for these sorts of conversations, Stiles thinks blearily. Or too late. It's too something, but Derek is watching him with a strange, wary look. Skittish, Stiles thinks as he heaves a sigh. He realizes then that it doesn't much matter what he says, because there's really nothing left for him to lose. So, he answers honestly.  
  
    "I just wanted you to be okay," he says softly, staring out at the darkened interstate. "I like you, and I worry about you, and honestly? You needed to get away, and I kind of needed to, too."  
  
    "That's it?"  
  
    Stiles looks back at him, gaze tracing over the painfully-vulnerable lines of his face, and shrugs. "I wanted to see new things with you. What else is there supposed to be?"  
  
    Derek nods, like that answers every question he has, and looks back out the windshield. He doesn't turn off his hazards, though, doesn't pull back onto the road, and Stiles waits for whatever rejection Derek is composing.  
  
    Derek doesn't speak, though. Instead, he unfastens his seatbelt, leans over the console, and kisses Stiles softly. It's brief, achingly gentle, and Stiles isn't altogether sure it's happening at all until Derek is leaning back and touching his own lips, eyes crinkled at the corners.  
  
    "I..." Stiles clears his throat. "Okay. That...okay. I'm sorry. I don't get it."  
  
    Derek settles back into his seat and fastens his seatbelt. "Buckle up," he replies quietly, pulling back onto the interstate. They drive in silence, broken only by the tinny sounds of jazz when Derek turns the radio on low.  
  
    "Why?" Stiles asks eventually, when he can't bear to let it lie any longer.  
  
    "There's a tradition," the older man replies, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel, "that says that if you kiss someone at midnight on New Years', they'll be with you through the coming year."  
  
    Stiles stares at him incredulously before sighing. He lies down again, squirming until he's facing Derek, and pouts up at him peevishly. "You can't just say 'I love you, too' like a normal person, can you?"  
  
    Derek smiles fully in response, rolling his eyes. Stiles snuggles down, grinning into the blanket when Derek's fingers thread through his hair briefly, and he starts to drift off to the sound of the engine and the soft murmur of Derek singing along to the radio.  
  
    "Derek?"  
  
    "Hmm?"  
  
    "What do you think about backpacking across Europe?"  
  
    Derek's quiet laughter follows him into his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a song of the same name by Trampled By Turtles. Good stuff!
> 
> In other news, it's 9am, and I've been working on this from beginning to end for 12 hours, so if there are errors, holes, confusing passages of nonsense, or other miscellaneous issues...well, I've been working on this for 12 hours. So. Just let me know and I'll get to fixing it after a nap.
> 
> Dedicated to my girlfriend. :3
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://www.frodis-baggins.tumblr.com)


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